Young Nicolas
by RedWhiteAndBlaire
Summary: A growing collection of shorts about Nic's life as a child alongside his father. Based on manga. Varying angst and hurt/comfort.
1. Learning

I wondered how Nicolas grew up in a mercenary group, so here we go... I imagine with the dehumanizing, objectified way Gaston looked at Nic, he would have raised him like a soldier would raise a puppy for war.

* * *

Rules were not foreign to Nicolas. The word itself became known to him almost a year after the concept.

While he could not understand everything the men around him said, he learned by their actions.

All Nicolas would recognize was the pain at first. On the first lesson he could recall about not climbing onto furniture of any sort, he did not comprehend the rule. He was five years old and, small as he was, had managed to get by with sleeping beside his father- his captain -until this point. The rented room had been small and cold. A low bed was pushed against the gray wall. Moonlight shone through the window, dimly lighting the room. Blearily, Nicolas remembered trying to curl up against his father's leg one moment, and being shoved clear off the bed the next. Concrete and blood met his tongue. Thinking it was one of the frequent rough handlings he received daily, he quietly climbed back onto the bed. Now his father turned over and planted the heel of his boot on Nic's head. Confused, Nicolas sat and stared. With a look of annoyance, Gaston reached over the bedside and practically tossed Nic by the back of his shirt. Nicolas tumbled into the corner of the room. What he knew by now was to stay put when the captain moved him in any way. Obediently, he pulled his legs to his chest and watched the captain for the rest of the night. Anxiety over this separation kept him awake. Soon he did not have the energy to sustain such a state, and slept every night thereafter alone in a corner.

Still, he had not learned this extended to all furniture. Shortly after his exile from the bed and, by extension, sleeping beside his father, he met Lesson Two. Common household objects such as chairs and sofas were not things he encountered often as a member of a mercenary group. When he found himself indoors once more, he naturally regarded his surroundings with curiosity. Through glassy eyes he watched his captain and the other adults help themselves to food at a wide table. He knew, instinctively rather than from any reprimand, that everyone else must eat before he did. So he waited. They were all happy about something, talking fast and slurred toward one another. Normally, Nicolas would stay rooted to a spot away and take what he was given when it was given. His captain had started to show more irritation over Nic's infantile dependency lately. Today they had briefly forgotten him as well. A full minute went by and they had not even noticed him perch on a chair at the far end of the table. Abruptly, the black-haired man nearest him took notice. Through a mouthful of food, he seemed to have said " _Off,"_ before grabbing Nic by the shoulder and throwing him.

Nic's mind was young. The sluggishness worsened with famishment and poor health between the minimum Celebre doses. He mechanically picked himself up, not hearing the words around him:

"Hold on," said Gaston, "he needs to learn."

The man who had thrown Nic smiled and leaned back. "Oh, this oughta be good. Teaching that dumb stray anything..."

"Pay attention." Gaston moved the chair back into place. Gesturing welcomingly to the seat, he said to Nic, "Sit."

Meekly, Nicolas advanced. He had to push himself onto the chair, hiking a leg up to do so with effort. As soon as he was on the chair, his captain knocked him off with a fist to his face. Nicolas landed on his back, looking up at his captain blankly. He could feel his shrunken stomach grinding itself hungrily though now his appetite diminished. Beyond his hearing, the men laughed.

Without emotion, Gaston repeated, "Sit."

Nicolas believed he must have followed the command wrongly before. Of course, that must be it. He tried again, and ended up on the floor with blood escaping out his nose now. The command was given: _sit_. Nicolas gazed back at Gaston, registering both the pain that said _do not_ and the command that said _sit._ In response to his hesitation, Gaston took a pill bottle from his pocket and shook it enticingly. A reward was rare; good things came when the captain decided, not from anything Nicolas did in particular. Slightly more interested, Nicolas attempted to climb onto the chair quickly. In one second he was standing three feet away, the next he was on the chair. The men gave impressed expressions at this show of speed. Nic's eyes widened a bit with surprise when Gaston hauled him off the chair again, this time with the addition of a sharp kick. On his feet, Nic sorely racked his brain for an answer as the command came again. In his mental fog, he had a small change of thought. He sank to the ground and sat there, like he had after his father tossed him from the bed. Now he saw the association. Gaston placed a bowl of noodles in front of the chair and set the pills beside it. Burying his chin in his knees, Nicolas remained. He almost thought to try the chair again when he realized Gaston had not spoken the command again. The men smiled and shook their heads. Looking satisfied, Gaston picked up the bowl and plunked it down beside Nic. He popped a pill out of the container before returning it to his pocket. For a moment it seemed he would pat Nic's head approvingly. His fingers rifted through Nic's hair, causing an unexpected spark of happiness in Nic. Directly after, the fingers took hold, pulling Nic's head back. Gaston shoved the round pill to the back of Nic's throat with the thumb of his other hand. Ignoring his gag reflex, Nic swallowed dryly.

From then on he understood: sit, floor; sleep, floor. Never do either on furniture.


	2. One for the Road

I'm reading over more about Gaston Brown and I'm thinking... Wait, did he ever hit Nic? How much did Gaston actually care... He let the other mercenaries kick little Nic around but told them not to be too harsh about it; or maybe that was him saying, "Don't chip the paint on my investment!"

Had Gaston been the one to bottle-fed little Nic and... take care of a little kid? I believe so. If only like a soldier's relationship to a dog, there's something there.

* * *

Hair poked Nic's eyes. Blinking, he held a hand under his matted bangs to push them off his face. Under the tips of his small fingers he could discern his captain's waist. A frown tugged at his mouth slightly. Gaston had turned to face him in the street, and Nicolas had surely missed whatever the man had said to him. Too close to stare skyward, Nicolas shuffled backward at the same time his father reached for him. Dirt scuffed under his shoes as he was pulled closer. Nic silently accepted whatever rebuke there was to come. Crouching down to Nic's level, Gaston tugged firmly on the boy's hair. Nicolas winced, not out of pain, but anticipation.

"Damn, this is too long," Gaston remarked.

Nic blinked again as he tried to read what his captain said. A single cat flashed by in the emptied street, catching his sensitive vision. Gaston tapped his temple to regain his attention.

"Might as well take it all off."

Unhappy about this, Nic bit his lip. If the captain wanted his hair that short again, he would never protest.

Gaston regarded him with subdued amusement. He took his hand away to point at his own head. "Like mine, then?"

Ingenuously, Nic remained silent and submissive. No response came to mind, he would plainly stand rooted to the spot until further direction came. His legs felt numb from the knees down, prickling with fatigue above. The morning sun had risen within the past hour, though he had been awake all night. He swayed slightly, not yet accustomed to the hardships of travel. At seven years old now he stood only three and a half feet tall. His face brushed against Gaston's jacket before he realized he was dozing. At once, he straightened. Before he could see what his father had said, a large hand pushed on his chest. Within a split second he was dangling like a limp cat. Gaston walked, carrying him under his arm with one hand. Nicolas could not have weighed more than thirty pounds. Unable to resist, Nicolas fell asleep to the rocking motion.

Cold water woke him. He stilled himself as quick as he jerked in surprise; his father looked down at him calmly. A rusted sink faucet unfurled an icy wave over his head. He was held halfway in the sink while his father deforested his thicket of dirty hair. They were in a restroom, perhaps the back of a café. Nicolas remembered only two other times he was inside such a place: a bar, to dab his brow dry after a thrown beer bottle cut him; and a large, busy café, when he was being taught to use the bathroom alone. As far as his experience dictated, he did not like public restrooms. He remained as unflinching as possible as bits of hair and flakes of dried blood floated down the drain.

Gaston gathered Nicolas upright, facing the mirror. Now his black hair was not quite so long, but gratefully not trimmed as close as the captain's. He could not discern what else was different about his hair besides the length out of his eyes. Unsure and awaiting direction, he stared back at his father. Gaston held him in one arm and vigorously rubbed his head, sending water droplets flying. Nicolas squeaked and sank under his father's arm. Finished, Gaston showed him the mirror again. Nic's hair stood up in a jagged cut clearly done with a razor. His shirt had stayed with Gaston's arm as he slipped, showing his thin little belly and ribs. Ridiculously, Nic clung to his father's arm under his chin, his soft face squished. It was a picture that belonged on a card where a kitten would have been, holding onto a thin string with the words _Hang in there, baby!_ looping below it.

Before setting him down, his father said, "Now you can see when I speak, understand?"

Nic gave as best a nod as he could and an affirmative grunt.

"This morning I said we're going to join the group in the forest, stay in sight and don't bother me."

As his captain turned to leave, Nicolas touched his leg. Gaston looked over his shoulder. "What?"

Nicolas held up a finger, slowly pointing from his father to himself.

Visibly biting back a grin, Gaston muttered, "One for the road."

Gaston knelt and embraced Nicolas. Nic locked his wrists around his father's neck, breathing in his familiar scent. Strong arms squeezed the middle of his small back. As they parted, something tugged Nic back. His two dog tags tangled with his father's single military tag. Gaston flipped the tags over and shook them loose. The tags slapped lightly against Nic's bony chest. Straightening, Gaston ruffled Nic's hair a final time. He gave an approving nod at his own satisfactory work, and walked away.


	3. Next Mission, and the Next, and the Next

I believe it is accurate enough to believe Gaston had to be a bit extra insensitive around Nic with other mercenaries nearby. Perhaps also to avoid letting himself become too emotionally attached to a child with such grim chances at life. Also, that Nicolas likely had impaired hearing when he was very young, which deteriorated. I could not find anywhere in the manga that stated he was born entirely deaf.

* * *

Sparks spat over a broken pavilion. Gunfire rang out in a steady din between the crumbling warehouses. Behind an improvised bulwark, Gaston briefly turned his wrist. His watch read 4:25pm as someone across from his group screamed in pain. They had planned this assault on an enemy gang in West Gate, with a drawn-out firefight Gaston expected it to be a straightforward victory. Moving back, he rested his head against the sandbags and laid his rifle beside him. He brought his backpack to his chest and shifted something inside.

"Oh, that's the whelp?" a mercenary spoke beside him. He reloaded his gun while peering over Gaston's shoulder.

Inside the pack, a small boy sucked on a bottle Gaston held. The boy's eyes glanced toward the sounds of the melee, yet he did not cry or fuss. Black, fuzzy hair lined his fragile scalp like velvet. Tiny hands slowly and curiously explored Gaston's gloved fingers.

"How long are we keeping that thing?" the man asked.

Gaston gave a dismissive nod toward the enemy. "Until the next mission. Now keep your eyes on the field."

Shrugging, the man repositioned his gun. "He _is_ kinda cute," he murmured, reaching over to poke Nicolas. The moment his head rose above the barricade, a bullet entered through his left ear and exited with a wet burst out the other. His body toppled to the ground lifelessly.

"Idiot," remarked Gaston, an observation rather than any emotional term.

Nicolas hiccupped once, a white milk bubble growing at the corner of his mouth. Gaston adjusted the bottle accordingly and grasped his gun. Backwards and over his head, he shot the final bullet. The remaining stream of bullets beyond them ceased. As Gaston tucked Nicolas away again, he designated men to execute the wounded survivors. Within the hour, Gaston began organizing the mercenary group to march back to their base. Extra firearms and supplies had been taken, rival survivors shot, and none had escaped. As far as Gaston concerned himself, it was a good haul. No one trifled with the bloody mess beyond; it was someone else's job to clean, if not to be left on the outskirts of town as is. The mercenaries were doers of nature's law. Nature itself could take care of the rest. By the time they were settling for the night, Gaston glanced at his watch again. At 7:40pm, he took Nicolas out to change and feed him. Though Nicolas was a quiet child, Gaston preferred to attend to him a few minutes early on days such as this. Doing so practically guaranteed the boy's silent contentment. He had opted to spend the last six months caring for Nicolas alone to handle any of the expected crying and required attention. Instead Nicolas was ideally predictable and uncomplicated. Gaston's only suspicion was over the boy's intelligence; something seemed strange about him, yet he was still inquisitive about his surroundings. For now Gaston could not discern the abnormality. Perhaps it was a mark or inborn trait twilight offspring possessed.

As Gaston sat with Nic in the crook of his arm, both the child and the bottle balanced with one hand, a mercenary approached. Beer in hand, the lanky man sat on a barrel across from his captain.

"How's it going," he tipped his beer toward Nic.

Gaston laughed. "He's clearly not human, but it's easy. Like when we picked up Gracie."

The man took a swig from his bottle, looking at a despondent dog lying against the far wall. "Oh, yeah," he nodded. "Gotta put that bitch down soon, too many fleas."

"You gave her a fat chick's name," commented another man nearby. He fixed his cap sideways, shaking his head.

Sneering, a third man snapped, "That's my ma's name!"

"I _know,"_ leered the second, inciting a ripple of laughter through the room. Nicolas blinked at the loud, rowdy sound.

The man in his sideways hat smiled toward Gaston. "What'd you name the thing?" he asked. "We should name it something like Spike or Butch Cassidy!"

"Too late," Gaston smiled back, lifting a chain from the child's neck. "Already have him tagged as Nicolas Brown."

"Brown?" The man cocked a scarred eyebrow.

Flicking Nic's tags absently, Gaston stated, "He's mine. I'll be heading off in the morning to pick up a unit by the east side, with the fine haul today you all ought to get by without me."

No one cared to press further. The captain came and went as he desired, it was any man's satisfaction to be in his unit. A mercenary was paid to work, holding little to no loyalty to whoever issued commands. Only the man who asked gave a mild grunt and returned to his previous conversation. Gaston set the empty infant's bottle down, letting Nicolas rest in his lap. The man in front of Gaston drained his beer before mumbling, "Hey, can I hold't?"

Gaston scooped Nic into one hand. He held him out like an old helmet. Little nostrils flaring at the smell of the other man, Nicolas gurgled questioningly. His pinkish hands clenched and unclenched in premature fists. The man held him sloppily, squinting at him as if he were a peculiar insect. He chuckled at how tiny Nic was and clumsily changed his hold. Lolling his weak neck back, Nicolas feebly waved a short arm at his father. Gaston sat indifferently with a leg resting over his knee. A moment later Nicolas dropped like a stone. Nic gave one of few cries in his infancy, a shrill and genuinely frightened sound. The growing wail died in his narrow throat; Gaston caught him with nearly inhuman speed before he touched the ground. Nicolas curled his fingers around the large thumb by his head, tears welling in his eyes. Drawing himself upright, Gaston plopped Nicolas into the backpack again. He nonchalantly explained again that though the creature was not human, it still was quite breakable. Inside the pack and out of sight, Nicolas softly closed his mouth on Gaston's thumb. His father's palm cradled his small head. Familiar fingers gently stroked his head, brushing against his closing eyelids.


	4. Earning Teeth

"Is he functional?" asked Gaston.

He sat with his fists on his knees. The portly doctor standing before him removed gloves with a sticking, crumpling noise.

"Functional..." the doctor repeated, wrinkling the folds of skin around his eyes with a distasteful squint.

Gaston stood up, a fair measure taller than the older man. A low whine droned from the clinic's weathered A/C unit. Beyond the blue tiled room, a row of cots stretched along the wall. A thin curtain veiled one cot, on which a small silhouette faintly moved as though breathing tiredly. If anyone entered and glanced around, they might believe a cat had laid down there; not a toddler. No one would believe it was a Twilight toddler, either.

"Alright," the doctor raised his hands defensively. "Yes, he's functional. I gave him a straight shot of celebrer, all he has now is a small cut on his face from when he was convulsing."

Slightly eased, Gaston folded his arms. "So it's the same as his mother; compensation."

"What did you expect-" stopping himself, the doctor regained traction carefully. "He's almost two years old now and you haven't given him celebrer before. Most Twilight children would have died a long time ago, and he nearly did today."

Gaston shrugged. He stared past the doctor, maintaining a stony visage. "This is the first time he ever needed it."

"He should be getting it routinely. I know what you do for a living and all, but..." he floundered briefly, "something has to give."

"Set him up for the lowest dose, then." The doctor began to object, and Gaston grimly spoke over him, "He isn't my son if he can't survive. That ought to be my blood in his veins, too."

Defeated, the doctor sank into a chair. If it was merely a matter of paternity, the doctor could easily resolve it. Gaston was stating something beyond a match of DNA. Rubbing his face, the doctor nodded, "I understand, maybe... maybe I could try to place him in Ergastulum for you."

"Where?" Gaston's temper flared. "That _thing_ is a Twilight," he pointed, "there is no life for him other than this. Make no mistake, doctor, he only lives to serve normal humans, and one day he will die for them. He was born to live as a soldier. Do you know what that existence means? He needs to be strong enough to shoulder that obligation, and wise enough not to seek a life he cannot have. If at any point he can't face it, let him die."

A small cough sounded from the occupied cot. The doctor wearily fixed a pen in his pocket. "You keep telling yourself that," he muttered. "Called him your son a minute ago, and ran in here pale as a ghost earlier." Raising his voice, the doctor spoke evenly, "I'll continue keeping him off Ergastulum records and dispense the celebrer."

"Better not be out of any pity," Gaston scoffed.

"Oh, no, as far as I'm concerned you pay me well." The doctor smiled, gazing past Gaston's rigid frown. "I have a feeling you won't let this get to you again. It's a harsh reality."

Grunting, Gaston banged the toe of his boot on the floor, sending chunks of dirt from his heel to the previously clean tile. "I am as bothered as anyone would be when a machine doesn't work right."

"Yes?" The doctor slowly stood again. "Well, your machine has another defect: it's deaf."

Gaston had already rapidly calmed to an icy expression. This made sense to him; the part he could not place was not a presence of something, but the absence. He gave a short nod. "I see."

"Partially deaf, but it will progress. He can't hear what's going on very well. Kids start talking at this age, he might figure it out."

Already advancing down the hallway, Gaston remarked, "He doesn't need to."

The doctor watched, dejected, as Gaston plucked the small boy from his cot. Nicolas was a limp, exhausted waif in his father's hands. Despite the small tremors of weakness shaking his thin body, he reflexively grasped at his father's jacket. Nic peered curiously at the doctor's sad eyes as they exited the clinic. Dark circles gathered around Nic's eyes, showing purple in the sunset's red glare. The disheveled men and listless women passed by on either side of the street. A few soot-besmirched orphans darted between vehicles. One of the ragged children bumped into a large man. The man grabbed the child angrily, hauling her back on something shiny around her neck. Nicolas blinked at the dog tags sticking out between the man's thick fingers. His own tags, on an adult's chain looped three times around his neck, pressed between his collar bone and his father's side. No change in expression marked Gaston's face. He only held Nic looser, as though he could not care if Nic fell. Weak, Nic would have, if not for two fingers under his arm discreetly holding him close. He rocked softly in time with his father's stride and soon fell asleep.

Once Gaston arrived at his rented room for the evening, he roughly shifted Nicolas. Nic looked around with wide eyes as Gaston walked across the plain room. Tiny hands latched around Gaston's neck as he dug through his satchel. At this time Nicolas was two hours late for his supper and had vomited earlier. His empty stomach gave feeble gurgles in protest. Pained and miserable, he mewled in his father's ear. Gaston held him close to his shoulder and lightly patted his back. He waited until Nic quietly nuzzled into his neck, then sat down against the bed. With a sloppy giggle, Nicolas slid down Gaston's chest into his lap. Gaston popped open a cup of soft fruit and let Nic hungrily pick from it. Spurts of juice dripped onto Nic's chin as he stuffed his hands into his mouth. Gaston reclined his head, gazing down at Nic soberly.

"You will never know my voice," he stated flatly. The fact was surreal when thought of too long; what did it matter to either of them? Something so mundane as speech recognition would be outside Nic's capacity.

Nicolas quickly finished his food and set to mouthing Gaston's hand. Gaston allowed him to, feeling his short milk teeth test his knuckle.

"Not my name either, huh?"

Nicolas stared up at him blankly. A brief sigh fumed from Gaston. Perhaps the child would be too weak to survive after all. Genuine surprise laced Gaston's features next; his finger twitched. Taking his hand from Nicolas, he beheld two lines of blood on his finger.

He grinned, poking at Nic's smooth lip, "Got your canines in early."

Nicolas curiously studied Gaston's prodding hand and mimicked the gesture, reaching for Gaston's mouth. Relaxing against the bed, Gaston helped Nicolas find his teeth. "Yeah, those are mine," he said, placing Nic's finger on his own sharp canines.

Furrowing his brow, Nicolas moved his hands over Gaston's mouth and throat as he spoke.

" **...** Rr **ine**?" Nicolas grappled with the words, attentively looking for a response.

Gaston paused. "Yeah," he repeated. "Mine," he moved Nic's hand to his teeth, "yours," he moved Nic's hand to the child's mouth.

Now feeling his own throat vibrate and the air escape his mouth, Nic mumbled, "Ou... Yo... Yo **ur**?"

Smiling, Gaston scratched Nic's head. "That's good," he nodded. "That's real good."


	5. Being Careful

Yea or nay? Should I make an AU fic of Nicolas as a teenager/older kid living with his father?

* * *

Most of the mercenaries in Gaston's company did not care for Nicolas. The child was smart to stay at the edge of the group, just enough to be in sight, yet out of mind. Others took notice of him and taunted or played with him as they desired. Still others openly disliked him; an intrinsic notion existed there, driving them to bring low the weakest member of their group. The child was not any of theirs, and certainly not claimed by Gaston as if he were an ordinary son. Mammals often killed offspring that were not their own. Besides this tension, as if Nicolas could not be further alienated from the men surrounding him, he was a Twilight. There could not be any acceptance, none of the better side of humanity to extend toward him. Nicolas could only be tolerated within proximity and ignored farther away; a different species, a creature without rights at best. An underdeveloped monster at worst.

He did possess a special resilience. The fact that Nicolas stayed alive among such a crowd defied all odds. His father's subtle intervention kept him on that fine line between being ignored, and being a target for the men on his own side. Gaston routinely took on new men and dismissed others; new members had a set time to stay, and it was Gaston's decision whether or not they did. Those that showed minimal aggression toward Nicolas found themselves remaining; and with little thought toward the child, preoccupied with their tasks or pleasures in their spare time, no one suspected such a selection existed. However, Gaston could not allow poorly qualified mercenaries to stay just for the sake of indifference toward Nic, and could not remove a member from the team due to any specific behavior. Thus men dangerous to Nicolas still had their place in the team. The risks of living beside uncouth men incentivized primarily by blood money was not diminished by much.

The rest was up to Nicolas.

As a six year old, he had been stepped on, pushed out of the way and caught in the wrong place. At this point, he had no reason to think of the adults around him as dangers. They were not unlike how he thought of any formidable force; he knew not to touch flames or prod sleeping dogs, and in the same train of thought knew not to bother the men. He respected them. He did not know terror. The first seizure he suffered as a two year old, or the time he had cried out before his father caught him as an infant, had been forgotten. At his father's side, he had a practically abnormal sense, or lack thereof, regarding fear. In his earliest memory of gore, seeing men viciously battling in the street, he did feel a cold panic tickle his spine. He had only tiredly looked to his father. The man showed no emotion. There had been no fear or softness in Gaston's expression. Nicolas had stared at his father, his captain, wondering how to react or how to _be_ in such a situation. Seeing nothing but authority and seriousness, he breathed a small sigh. He would be as unfazed as the man he looked up to. For most of his life, he would not see much emotion from his father. So he, too, would not be inclined to show what he may feel or think. The process was more subconscious than willful, though one incident stood out by how he had chosen to react.

Spring had arrived and brought with it five new men to the team. It was the largest number yet; usually one or two new members joined, but recent deaths had set the entry bar low. In addition to the new men, insensitive and ignorant toward a stray such as Nicolas, Gaston could not wisely let other members leave at the end of their usual terms. Despite two being hostile toward Nicolas, they were good mercenaries. Only one man remained who actually interacted with Nic with some mild degree of kindness. The others were indifferent.

Gaston gave tonight's camp arrangement a final glance as he prepared to leave. They had set down under an abandoned, open-aired slaughter house. Old brown stains paved the floor and low walls, tracing up the ceiling like buckshot. Nicolas sat by the far corner, picking at the rusty flakes under his shoes. His innocent gaze flicked up at Gaston, curious. The world was a quiet, simple place from the boy's point of view, looking out past dried pig's blood and rowdy men at his captain. Gaston nodded to a man seated by the door. Nicolas thought his father looked at the man and said, "Keep things in order, Clyde."

To which the man smiled and leaned in his chair. "You got it, boss."

After Gaston left, Clyde brought his hat over his eyes and crossed his arms. He rested far back in his char, propped against the wall precariously. Clyde was not ill-mannered to Nicolas overall. As Nicolas studied Clyde's behavior briefly, he required a moment to realize Gaston had left. He had never walked away from him before like this. Nicolas blinked and walked to the wall. Dried blood gritted against the soles of his bulky shoes. An astonishing moment of uncertainty and conflict froze Nicolas there, staring at the wall, too short to gaze above it. The weight of the situation threatened to unnerve him. Gaston was no longer there to look to; Nic's only trusted source of guidance was absent. He had been told to stay, over an hour ago when he sat down. Fear nagged at his mind as he realized he had disobeyed. The strange feeling confused Nicolas further, not knowing what it was or from where it came. Was he to follow Gaston, or return to his position? He would obey the most recent command. Relief almost soothed him as he came to this conclusion.

A loose boot struck his face. Nic almost toppled to the floor with it in surprise. One of the new men had turned toward him, straddling an ammunition crate. Something must have been said before the blow struck. Nic stared, round-eyed with confusion, as he tried to discern slurred and angry words:

" _Get- f'ing idiot_!" yelled the man.

Get the shoe? Nic blinked a stream of blood away, starting toward the item. He picked it off the dusky floor and approached the man. Bloodshot eyes glowered back at him, ringed with sleeplessness. Foamy saliva oozed from the corner of the man's lip, sticking to his lazily shaven face. Veins pulsed along his scarred, white knuckles. Frustration seemed to only radiate from him increasingly. Nic presented the shoe to him compliantly. The other men were starting to laugh as he roughly took the object from Nic's small hands. Oblivious, Nicolas remained by the man and waited for a new command. This angered the man more.

"The fuck do you want? Oh, you're still not talking, huh?"

Seconds passed as Nicolas worked through the words, trying to make sense of them at last. By the time he did, it was too late for action; though knowing the words would have been meaningless.

Nic's focus shifted as pain embraced him. The man sent him face-down to the ground with a sharp blow. For the first time Nicolas could remember, his body released a flow of adrenalin. An animal of the same state of being had two choices: to attack, or to flee. Nic found his own blood coating the dry remnants of butchered livestock. One man pressed the heel of his boot into Nic's back, driving the air out of him. Nic felt a rib crack under the pressure. A whimper would have escaped him if he had a single mouthful of air. As it were, he could not move as a large hand took hold of his hair. This man scraped his chin against the ground before pulling him up.

The mercenary, wearing a wicked smile, spoke, "I think he knows what we're saying. He's just too stupid to get it."

"Supposed to be a Twilight, my ass!"

"There are a lot of mutty Twilights."

"Yeah? Ditch this one, then, get a better one."

Nic had difficulty holding himself up with someone still pressing his chest into the floor and the other pulling his hair. He could only see tall men leering down at him. The rust-colored walls seemed closer than before, shouldering in around him. Clyde caught his eye, still propped against the wall in his chair. An almost pleading expression must have existed in Nic's gaze. Tipping his cap, Clyde smiled at Nic.

"Hey..." he spoke, turning his grin to the men. "Take it easy."

The glimmer of Clyde's eye disappeared under his cap. He rested once more, without sparing the scene another glance. Nic strangely, against two natures colliding within him, became still. He accepted the pain without protest. As he lowered his gaze, his fate was sealed.

"Fine," muttered the man in front of Nic. "You know what? Make him useful. He can still learn stuff."

"Are you kidding me? It's so dumb, I think it forgot how to breathe right now."

"For sure, check this out."

They promptly pushed him to his feet. Taking the loose boot Nic had retrieved earlier, one man wiggled it in his face. The steel toe of the boot bumped his nose, causing another bruise on his softer skin. Next, the man threw it. Nic watched blearily as it struck the far wall, soundless to his ears.

"Fetch!"

Nicolas stood quietly. Blood seeped from a cut above his eye. Annoyed, one man shoved him toward the shoe. Nicolas followed the motion, compliantly moving in the direction his body was forced. At the wall, he halted and looked back at the men.

"Oh, fuck's sake," grumbled a young man. "See? Dumb as a bag of rocks."

"This'll do it!"

The sleepless man unlaced his other boot. Nicolas saw the projectile approaching his face soon after, but did not move to avoid it. The heel struck squarely on his nose. He felt a new dribble of blood. He looked down at the shoe as a droplet gathered under his nostril.

"Don't bleed on my damn boot, fucker!"

With a brief snort, he sucked the fluid to the back of his throat. He took both boots and returned them, accepting the pain that throbbed throughout his small body.

"Alright, so, if you want a beer, you gotta throw one at it first."

"That's useless."

"Two beers, one can, that'd work."

"That's not how anything works- God, you're catching that thing's stupidity."

Nicolas sat down at his previous spot, far enough from the group to be ignored. Hugging his knees to his chest, he rested his wounded chin. Cold metal soothed the stinging somewhat. The tag he could not read spelled NICOLAS BROWN, pressing into his unfleshed nerves. He sat in silence, glimpsing the world through a slit between his knees as a new, darker place. After the sun set, Gaston returned. He scanned the room with a practiced eye, giving Nicolas a subtle pause. Relief might have existed there, though he had already braced himself for the probable death of young Nicolas years ago. Once the group had organized into separate units for patrolling the camp tonight, Gaston beckoned Nicolas to come. Nic obeyed promptly, internally delighted to be near his captain again. Gaston brushed a thumb against a developing bruise on Nic's neck.

"What's that?" he asked lowly.

The smell of dried livestock blood immediately came to Nic's mind. Unflinchingly, he answered, "'dow... I 'ell d...own."

Gaston exhaled. He chided, "Be more careful."


End file.
